


The Sorrows of Your Changing Face

by MountainKestrel



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Artist Steve Rogers, First Kiss, Fix-It of Sorts, Getting Together, Happy Ending, M/M, Manhattan, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, POV Tony Stark, Parent Tony Stark, Past Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Permanent Injury, Pre-Relationship, Steve Rogers Feels, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Gets a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 01:36:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28538214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MountainKestrel/pseuds/MountainKestrel
Summary: Tony runs into an old friend and realizes that maybe he hasn’t put the past quite as far behind him as he thought.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 23
Kudos: 131





	The Sorrows of Your Changing Face

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GotTheSilver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GotTheSilver/gifts).



> This story is a gift to [GotTheSilver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GotTheSilver/pseuds/GotTheSilver), who won a 1-3K story from me in the raffle after the POTS Discord readathon. This was her prompt: for whatever reasons, Tony and Steve never got the timing right while they were active superheroes, now they're retired and circumstances keep bringing them into each other's orbit and they fall in love. Tired older men finally getting to be happy. The title comes from the W.B. Yeats poem “[When You Are Old](https://poets.org/poem/when-you-are-old).”
> 
> Many, many thanks to [RiaRose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaRose/pseuds/RiaRose), [Elwenyere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elwenyere/pseuds/elwenyere), and [starksnack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starksnack/pseuds/starksnack) for their help making this story so much better than it would have been!
> 
> I’m on Discord as musicalla#7701. I’m always happy to chat if you want to say hi! I spend almost all of my time on the [Put on the Suit (18+) Stony Discord server](https://discord.gg/z5WSqbS), which is a wonderful, supportive place full of fantastic creators.

It was a beautiful, crisp fall day in New York City — the kind where the sky was a perfect blue, cloudless between the skyscrapers. The trees were a riot of oranges and reds and yellows, a handful of their leaves still punctuated with green at the bases, fluttering in the gentle breeze blowing down 5th Avenue. The afternoon itself was warm, but it held the promise of a cool night to follow, a nip in the air for the nose and fingertips of those still hoping for enough summer to have left their jackets at home.

Tony stood outside the Guggenheim, adjusting his scarf as he watched the crowds bustling by. Morgan had invited him for lunch. She was in the middle of curating an exhibit of functional documents as art: blueprints and architectural drawings, doodles that turned into buildings or robots, designs that became technology now commonplace in the pockets of people around the world. At her insistence, Tony had lent copies of some of his own designs: the arc reactor that had started it all; the Mark VII, the prototype he’d worn to fly the nuclear bomb into space; some of the architectural drawings used in the remodel of Stark Tower when it was destroyed in the battle of New York; a schematic of the arc reactor casing from the suit he’d used the day the Ebony Maw had come to earth.

In a move Pepper would have recognized, Morgan had dismissed him after eating with an explanation about how much work she had left to do, and Tony had walked out of the Guggenheim with a smile on his face, a small shake of his head. It seemed incomprehensible that she was twenty-eight years old, already known for her own work as an archivist and historian, specializing in technology and its effect on modern life — big surprise there. He never ceased to be amazed how much she managed to be like both parents without making it seem like she’d gotten the worst of either one of them.

The thought of Pepper sent a muted pang through him, as it always did. Turns out, after everything, the thing Pepper couldn’t abide was first-hand knowledge of fighting. After the snap — the second one, _his_ snap — it all became too much. Their individual experiences with PTSD, the nightmares, the scars — both emotional and physical — that was what finally what tore them apart. Tony was never quite able to recapture the peace they’d built around the cabin; never quite able to find that easy intimacy they’d established there or open himself up again like he had during those idyllic years. Something stayed with him, after watching Peter dissolve away in his arms and Thanos’s ship appear in the sky over the compound. After his heart stopped when he’d thought that Cap had died in the rubble. The pain that had seared through every nerve ending in his left arm, burning muscle and sinew as he’d saved the universe one last time. They were all things he just couldn’t shake, things that stayed with him the way nothing else had.

At the memory, he rubbed at his right arm, feeling the twisted scars over his skin. He flexed and extended his fingers for a moment, still remembering the power from the Infinity Stones, the worlds that had opened up to him in that instant before he’d finished it once and for all.

“Tony?”

His head snapped up. Recognizing that voice — how could he forget it, after everything? — Tony searched the crowd before he settled on the familiar broad shoulders, the blond hair, the blue eyes.

Tony felt his mouth go dry. The blue eyes, the same color as the New York fall sky. He never could forget them, no matter how hard he tried.

Steve smiled at him, the corners of his lids crinkling where there was now a web of wrinkles. Time, it seemed, was ultimately more powerful than even the serum; Tony could see fine lines on Steve’s face and around his mouth, the traces of thousands of smiles and laughs. But there were also lines between his eyebrows, reflective of darker emotions. Those memories came unbidden too: Steve’s head ducked, telling them about how they were Natasha’s family. The grief and tears on his face when he thought Tony was going to die from his injuries.

Swallowing, Tony felt the words stick in his throat. How long had it been since they were together? After Thanos, Tony had spent weeks in an ICU under the supervision of Helen Cho, followed by months at a rehab where he learned to walk and use his left arm again, such as he could. It wasn’t that anyone hadn’t come to visit — the Avengers and Peter, even Sam and, on one memorable occasion, Bucky. After everything, though — well, it was hard to be together. They could feel the empty space left by Natasha, knew how much they’d lost and given away to get everyone back.

Whatever it takes, Steve had said.

It had certainly taken its fair share and more.

“Steve,” Tony finally forced out, his voice a little choked. How long had he been standing here, mouth open, trying to piece together that one word from all the years they’d spent together, the even longer years they’d spent apart?

“You look great.” Steve approached, hands in his pockets. He had a dark blue sweater on, sleeves pushed up over his elbows, a fitted pair of jeans and leather boots completing the ensemble. It was like the last twenty-five years or so hadn’t passed for Steve — still the man out of time, even if he’d spent more time in the 21st century than he had in the 20th by this point.

Tony felt his mouth work again, still struggling to form words. “You look the same,” he said with a laugh.

Laughing back, Tony thought he saw Steve’s expression loosen a little bit, relief flickering across his features before it was gone. “Dr. Erskine knew what he was doing,” Steve said, although his tone didn’t quite match up with his words, missing easy-going and hitting somewhere closer to uneasy.

Running his hand self-consciously over his hair, Tony felt a flash of vanity. What did Steve really see when he looked at him? The twisted skin on his right arm was visible where his own shirtsleeves were pushed up. His fingers were no longer elegant and deft now that their range of motion was limited by scar tissue and contractures, not to mention the injured muscles and nerves in his forearms. The scar tissue extended up onto his neck and the right side of his face, edging into his hair line. There was white at his temples and streaked through his goatee and hair, which was still thankfully thick and curly. His own face had a lot more wrinkles where it wasn’t scarred, the skin not as smooth as it used to be. But he wasn’t _unattractive_ , his mind offered a little defensively. Just because he wasn’t a super soldier who still looked like he was in his thirties didn’t mean he’d lost his looks completely.

“What brings you to Manhattan?” Steve was looking at him intently, and Tony found it hard to meet his gaze. It had been almost twenty-five years since he’d last seen the good Captain, but he hadn’t forgotten the force of his attention — it was like looking directly into the sun.

“Oh, Morgan asked me to visit,” Tony answered vaguely, waving a hand back towards the museum. “Then she kicked me out so she could get some work done. I hope she doesn’t use that move on Pepper — she’s likely to get a poor response,” he added with a weak laugh.

Steve looked over Tony’s shoulder at the Guggenheim’s distinctive facade, his expression thoughtful. “I think she’d understand. Pepper’s kind of that way too,” he offered.

As the silence hung between them at that observation, Tony shoved his hands in his pockets, letting out his breath slowly. _You used to be good at this,_ he thought, _talking to people. Talking to Steve._

“Can I get you a coffee?” Steve asked suddenly, his expression eager as he interrupted Tony’s thoughts. It was a look Tony recognized easily, the look he would give whenever something in the future both surprised and delighted him. A look that Tony had seen less and less often the longer he’d known Steve. “Unless you have somewhere else to be?”

Looking at the blue sky and the autumn leaves, feeling the warm air on his skin, Tony realized how badly he wanted to say yes. “I’d actually really like that, Cap.”

“Steve — Just Steve now,” he corrected, and he reached a hand out and gripped Tony’s right forearm. The skin there had limited sensation, mostly just impressions of hot and cold with little pain or vibration to speak of. Steve’s hand, however, was hot — he’d always run hot, side effect of the serum — and Tony could feel the heat radiating from him more intensely than anything he’d felt in that arm for a long time. He gasped a little at the shock of it, and Steve let go, jerking his hand away. “I’m sorry,” he said in a rush. His hands ghosted around Tony, wanting to comfort him but unsure how without touching him. “I didn’t think — does it hurt?”

Tony pulled his hand out of his pocket and showed his arm to Steve, rolling up the sleeve farther. “It aches sometimes, especially when the weather is changing. Looks worse than it feels. I’m not doing a lot of intricate detail work these days. That didn’t hurt — just forgot how warm your hands always are,” he said, turning his hand back and forth and opening and closing his fingers slowly to show Steve he was fine.

Steve’s skin had gone pale, and there were tears in his eyes. His hands engulfed Tony’s, his fingers tracing the knots on the back of Tony’s hand. Steve lifted Tony’s hand to his mouth, gently kissing the skin over his knuckles. “It’s beautiful, and I’m sure everything you’ve created since then is too,” he said, his breath ghosting over Tony’s skin. That was also hot, an echo of Steve’s skin on his own.

Shivering, Tony tightened his fingers, giving Steve’s a short squeeze. “Coffee?” he prompted, noticing the color high on Steve’s cheeks.

“Of course,” Steve replied, dropping Tony’s hand.

They walked in silence for a few blocks before Steve led Tony into a small coffee shop, his hand at the small of Tony’s back. It was cozy with dark wood and couches, the murmur of patrons filling the space. “Still drink an Americano with an extra shot?” Steve asked, pulling out his wallet. “My treat.”

“Ah — no,” Tony answered with a rueful grin. “I was told to stay away from that much caffeine with my heart. It also blows what little fine motor control I do have in my hand to shit. Decaf latte would be great.”

The thoughtful expression came back over Steve’s face as he nodded slowly. “Right,” he said, “well, why don’t you grab somewhere to sit, and I’ll bring the drinks over?”

Tony found a pair of chairs near the back facing a window that looked out over 86th Street, a small table between them. While his name was still famous, he wasn’t nearly as recognizable. Right after the snap, his armor had been everywhere — painted in murals, pictures hung up on fences with lights beneath, his helmet looking out over cities across the world. Over time, the man within the armor had faded in the world’s consciousness, and after living in the cabin upstate, Tony had found it a relief. Reminders from his life before — living in the Tower, being an Avenger and the public face of Stark Industries, having his face immediately recognizable from the news and the internet — they still caught him wrong, like a punch in the gut when he wasn’t expecting it.

It was all hard to remember, an ache not unlike the one he lived with in his arm. They were good memories — good friends, a life with a purpose, something to live for. He’d had Steve by his side, a partner through good and bad, and the rest of the Avengers at his back. But then Rhodey had been paralyzed, and he’d lost almost everything from Thanos. It was hard to remember — hard to think of those friendships without thinking about the losses. Sure, they’d come together one last time. But Tony knew he wouldn’t have been able to bear losing everything a second time.

Some things even he couldn’t endure.

Some of his thoughts must have shown on his face, because Steve’s expression shuttered a little when he sat down and handed over Tony’s drink. “Thinking about before?” he asked softly, his eyes meeting Tony’s, his gaze steady.

Tony huffed out a laugh and held out his cup. Steve tapped the rim of his against Tony’s with a sad smile. “Hard not to, seeing you again,” he answered.

“I’m sorry for all the hurt I caused you,” Steve said by way of reply, his eyes downcast. “It wasn’t fair — it was never fair, and you didn’t deserve —“

“It’s okay, Steve,” Tony cut him off. “I forgave you a long time ago for that. You did what you thought you needed to do — you always did.”

There was gratitude in Steve’s eyes, and he shook his head a little at Tony’s response. “I never deserved you and everything you did for me.” Tony shrugged him off uncomfortably, waving his words away. Steve took a long drink, and somehow the silence seemed a little less awkward. “Are you out here working with Morgan a lot on her exhibit?” Steve finally asked, clearly looking for a more neutral topic.

“You know about Morgan’s exhibit?”

Steve set his cup down on the table and tipped his hands to the side, weaving his fingers together as he sat forward. “Tony — Pepper gave her my information when she started it. We’ve been working very closely together on it. I contributed quite a few pieces for her to use.”

Tony blinked for a few moments. “I’m a little surprised she didn’t say anything,” he said. His left hand went to his chest instinctively, rubbing at the long, thin scar where his arc reactor used to sit.

“She knows it’s hard for you to talk about,” Steve said after a pause. “She said when she was little, you didn’t like it when she asked you about it. So she stopped asking.”

Feeling his heart skip a beat under his hand, Tony found himself unable to come up with a response. His vision blurred with tears, and he looked down at the table, wrapping both hands around his cup. “Well I’ll be damned,” he huffed out, “she was always the smartest out of all three of us.”

Steve reached out and put a hand on Tony’s knee, the warmth soaking through the fabric to his skin. “What —“ Tony had to stop, his voice rough with emotion before he could continue, “What did you contribute for her exhibit?”

“Do you want to see?” The earnest look was back, and Tony felt his heart flip a little in his chest. Somehow, he’d thought over the years that Steve would have stopped having that effect on him — the ability to surprise Tony with his vivacity, to find the beauty in small things. Even when he had been out of his mind with grief, when he’d first been found, Steve had always had those moments — finding something to ground himself with, something everyone else had overlooked. He knew how to slow Tony down, to get him to reengage: a snack when he’d been working too long, a game with DUM-E, a little doodle.

A cup of coffee when Tony needed it most.

“I’d — I’d like that.”

Steve’s hand was under his elbow, the barest help as Tony stood with a cup in one hand, his weak arm braced as he stood from the chair. It was surreal, Tony thought, as they took the subway to Brooklyn — Steve had lived so many years under Tony’s care, first at the tower and then at the compound upstate. He’d thought of Steve many times over the years: what he was doing, if he was happy, what shape his life had taken with Sam and Bucky by his side. But he’d never thought about where Steve was living, what his home might look like. And here he was, Steve once again leading him, his broad shoulders making space for Tony in the crowds on the subway, a gentle touch on his back guiding him on where to go, a soft word to help Tony along.

They came to a large brick building, an old factory that had been repurposed into apartments with huge windows facing the water, the lights starting to come on in the late afternoon light. Steve walked up the stairs and punched in a code. The door clicked open, leading to a small staircase. Steve let Tony go first and set the pace up the stairs, for which Tony was grateful — his right leg never was quite as good as the left after that final battle. Another door with another code, and then Tony was in Steve’s home.

The first impression Tony had was of space — Steve was on the top floor, with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the upper bay. The vaulted ceilings rose high above them, bare metal beams left over from the building’s industrial beginnings criss-crossing in a geometric pattern that Tony found soothing. The room was dark with the lights off, long bands of light and dark alternating on the wooden floor from the windows and the brick supports between them. Across the water, he could see the Statue of Liberty holding her torch high, and beyond her, the streetlights in Jersey City were starting to flicker on as the sun set, casting long shadows across the water.

Steve turned on the lights, and Tony felt his breath catch. The walls were bare brick, and they were all covered with art: paintings and murals, sketches and canvases. They were all scenes from Steve’s Avenging days. Tony took a few hesitant steps closer before he realized it wasn’t exactly just his Avenging days — they were all somehow centered around Tony and the things he’d created.

A watercolor of his workshop, the blue screens thrown across the scene, the suggestion of a dark-haired person in the middle, his arms thrown wide. A technical drawing of the plates that made up the abdominal wall of the Mark XLIII. A painting of all of the iterations of the arc reactor. DUM-E with a cloth ball in his claw. Another watercolor, this time of the schematic Tony had used to show remains of Jarvis’s code after he fought Ultron. The iron gauntlet with all of the Infinity Stones.

There was an easel in the corner with a sheet partially covering it, protecting it from the bright light from the windows. Tony walked over, throwing a questioning glance over his shoulder, before he pulled the sheet off.

It was a painting, half-finished. Tony was slumped over, in his final armor, his left hand still in the gauntlet with the stones in place, clutching at the arc reactor. His skin was slack and grey, his eyes, barely focusing, the burn marks up his neck and face. His head was slightly tilted to the side, looking out from the painting at something to his left. Tony was outlined, but the painting was only half colored in. Tony reached out, running his ruined fingers over the dried paint of his face, along the scarred right side.

He knew that moment — it was seared into his memory with pain and suffering, agony both emotional and physical. He knew exactly what he was looking at — Pepper had been in front of him, but Steve was behind her, off her right shoulder. Tony closed his eyes, and he could see Steve in that moment like it was happening again: the blood on his face, his helmet dirty. And those blue eyes, filled with tears, filled with a despair Tony never wanted to see again.

Steve came up behind him, and Tony could sense the warmth radiating off him. “It’s you,” he said softly, his breath ghosting over Tony’s neck, his warmth seeping into the scars. “It was always you.”

Tony turned around and buried his face in Steve’s chest, stumbling as his legs struggled to keep up with the movement. Steve caught him, wrapping his arms around Tony. Burying his face in Steve’s sweater, Tony inhaled the clean scent of him — Ivory soap and the detergent for his clothes, all underlaid with the musk of Steve himself, the smell of leather and oil, with just a hint of charcoal.

Steve leaned back a little, looking down at Tony, and he cupped Tony’s face in his hands, running his fingers over the scars on his neck and face. “You are so beautiful to me,” he said, his voice rough, his Brooklyn accent coming out. “You always were.” 

Warmth bloomed in Tony’s chest, and he felt something release, something that had been wound too tight for too long. “Should have told me sooner,” he answered. He wrapped his arms around Steve’s neck, pulling him down. Their lips slotted together, and Tony felt more than heard Steve sigh, his arms tightening around Tony.

Tony wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, but it was dark outside the windows, the lights both from ships moving through the bay and on the shore beyond winking in the darkness. Steve led him over to the the couch and pulled him down on top of him, Tony’s head pillowed on Steve’s chest. Tony felt himself completely relax for the first time in a very long time — maybe even since before he’d snapped that iron gauntlet. It would be all right, he thought as he drifted off. With Steve by his side, everything would be all right.


End file.
